


Feathers Across the Seasons

by definitelynotmozart



Category: Classicaloid (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Based on a Vocaloid Song, M/M, Seasonal Feathers, Vocaloid - Freeform, crossover fic, vocaloid crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 05:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/definitelynotmozart/pseuds/definitelynotmozart
Summary: One cold winter day, Beethoven finds a crane trapped in a hunter's cage. Not sure what he should do, he sets it free. That same night, a person who goes by "Schubert" shows up on his doorstep, asking for lodging. Letting him stay, Beethes can't help but be drawn into Schuu, and their bond grows. But the peace can't last for long...(Somewhat of a songfic based off Feathers Across the Seasons, hence the title)





	Feathers Across the Seasons

It was a rather pretty winter scene in the small town where Beethoven lived, but he didn’t have time to admire the scenery. He was more focused on walking home in this cold and not dying. He had a source of income, and he couldn’t lose it now. But as he walked to his house, there was a sudden shuffling sound, one that hadn’t been heard before. What could it be? A wild animal? A thief? It was better to err on the side of caution, and he turned to look. Beethoven’s eyes widened- it was a crane stuck in a hunter’s trap, a beautiful white crane at that, and the sight struck a chord in him. No creature so beautiful should have to end up in the unfortunate hands of a hunter.

He knew that this poor bird had to be freed, and he walked toward it on tiptoe. As Beethoven got closer, he could see the panic in the crane’s eyes, and its wings flapped, trying so desperately to be free.

“So you’re trapped, huh?” He mused and looked at the trap- there seemed to be a rope of some sorts tied around the bird’s leg. “Not for long.” Beethoven smiled to himself as he carefully untied the trap, and in a few minutes, the bird was free. He didn’t say anything, just watched as the crane started to fly, wings extended in the cold winter sky. It was truly a sight to behold.

He resumed walking back to his house, and it seemed as though he wouldn’t forget this anytime soon. The quiet in the clearing, with the exception of the wingbeats of the crane, the coldness of the snow, it all was slightly surreal. But when he walked back to the village, there seemed to be a commotion- people were yelling, shouting, moving their stuff inside. Beethoven didn’t know what to do, he just stood there, mouth agape.

“There’s a blizzard, Beethoven! You should get inside!” Someone called. A blizzard? This was not… going to be good. Racing back with more urgency, he grabbed his things and boarded up the entrance, ready to wait out the storm. It would be cold, and it would be long. Lighting the hearth fire, Beethoven was grateful that he at least had one source of light in the darkness. Hours passed, and the light started to grow into darkness, casting shadows in his house.

He began to worry. What would happen to his friends, the other people in the village? Would they freeze to death? Die of hunger? Did they have heat? What if they were stuck outside in the snow, facing an icy downfall? Literally anything could happen. He kept on sitting on the cold wooden floor, the lantern beside him, lost in thought.

Knock. Knock. Knock. There was someone outside! What would he do? Did he have enough space for two? Did he want to let someone else die? In that moment, he remembered the crane. Did he let the crane die? In a way, this situation was similar- he had the choice to let it be or to help someone.

If it worked for the crane, it could work for whoever it was outside, so he opened the door, surprised to see a young man standing there, strawberry-blonde hair tied into a ponytail, wearing a pale orange and white kimono (or the male equivalent) that proved to be little help against the cold. He took off his glasses and wiped the snow off of them, as Beethoven watched in confusion.

“Who are you?” He asked the strange man.

“Do you mind, if, maybe I stayed at your place for tonight, I don’t want to be kicked back into the cold,” the strange man said, anguish in his voice. Beethoven thought for a second. This guy was strange, but he was trying to look for someone to stay with so he didn’t freeze to death. He guessed it was okay.

“Yeah, you can stay here. Let me get you some tea.” As he went to go get tea, the peculiar person sat down near the fireplace, taking in the warmth.

“I’m sorry for bothering you,” they said as they took a cup of tea and started to drink. “I just didn’t want to freeze out there, it’s really cold, and I don’t have any coats—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Beethoven reached out to comfort them. “There’s really no need to apologize. Just wanted to, you know, help another person out.”

“It’s really nice that you wanted to help me out, everyone else shut me out of their doors.” The person smiled at the hospitality.

“So you have nowhere to go after this?” There was a hint of pity in Beethoven’s voice- this person who seemed relatively nice didn’t have anyone to go to. “No family?”

“No, no family. No friends, also. I guess I can make it on my own.”

“Would you like to stay here, maybe?” He said on a whim. “I’m fine having another person, and you look like you need help, so…”

“That would be great!” The person seemed a lot happier, now that Beethoven was with them. “I’m Franz Schubert, by the way.” Beethoven looked into Schubert’s eyes and something looked familiar. But what?

“I’m Ludwig van Beethoven,” he said tersely. “And I have things to do. Go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

“Can I call you Beethes for short?” Schubert asked, seeming to light up at the sound of Beethoven’s name.

“Fine.” Forget what Beethoven had thought about Schubert being relatively nice- he was proving to be a pain in the ass. But hey, maybe it was just a rough beginning.

Little did he know that that night had begun to change things in Beethoven- not life-changing, but almost. Changes were little- Beethoven would at first choose not to talk with Schubert, who would prattle on and on as if he would listen, but tired of hearing him ramble, he began to respond, and soon, the two of them could hold an actual conversation.

And as Beethoven taught Schubert how to cook gyoza (he ran a small restaurant), he seemed to notice how alive he looked, like every day was something to look forward to. Working was a lot easier with him here, as the normally solitary man wasn’t completely overwhelmed. There was also something rather comforting about having someone else there with you.

It was almost as if Beethoven wanted Schubert to stay with him, not wanted, needed. Not only was it useful, the guy actually made good company.

* * *

 

One night, it was snowing lightly, and the restaurant had closed for the day. As Beethoven was washing dishes, he noticed that Schubert, who was usually right with him, wasn’t there. Did he die? Did he go back into the cold? He couldn’t stop imagining what could have happened- after the bond had grown, he couldn’t lose Franz now.

As he finished, he began to walk to the back of the restaurant, his quarters, in a haze. What would he do without Schu? That person who he had once almost cast out had been a valuable asset in his business, and also had brought some solace into his life, which was at first bleak and barren.

“The snow is beautiful,” he heard someone say and turned around. It was Schubert, standing right there, still dressed for a work shift with his curly hair in a ponytail and a cloth tied over his head. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Good. He was still there.

“Huh?” Beethoven said in confusion as Schubert opened the door, cool air rushing in, and he sat down on the doorway. “What’s so pretty about something that could kill someone?”

“Well, if you want to look at it that way, you can look at it that way, but if you just try, you can view anything as beautiful.” Schubert smiled- the snow, falling softly, truly was a beautiful sight. What was there not to like?

“It has no… passion.” Sitting down next to him, Beethoven decided to give it another look, and he noticed nothing different about the drifting snowflakes.

“It does have passion, Beethes. A quiet passion. So unlike the blizzards that come here every once in a while,” Schubert mused. “Passion, wild, but still controllable. Which makes no sense but if you think about it, it does.”

“You’re right, it does have a different kind of passion. A passion to take its time, which is also valuable,” Beethoven agreed- the snow was very passionate if he did think about it that way. “Nothing like the day you went up to me in the rain and asked me for lodging. I thought you were a pain in the ass.” This made him laugh as he looked back on it. “I remembered I rescued a crane that day- heck, I think I might not forget it.”

“Must’ve been a great experience.” Face flushed, Schubert turned away from Beethoven, who was once again lost in thought. He seemed to be getting into these spells of sorts. It wasn’t anything bad, just he could be very hard to talk to sometimes. But then again, he was still nice.

It was even nicer when he looped an arm around Schubert’s shoulders, and at that moment, everything in the world was still- just the two of them and something beautiful.

* * *

 

Winter grew into spring, and the sun seemed to shine brighter in the sky, melting the coolness of winter away, flowers starting to bloom, and the earth seeming to come alive. As the sun rose earlier and earlier, it seemed as though Schubert rose with it. The door would open, and there would be the sounds of chattering birds, which made it hard for the quiet man to sleep.

Did Schu really think Beethes wouldn’t notice?

One morning, he decided to see what Franz was up to, and waited until the door creaked open to see what would happen. He half expected him to be going on an affair, but what surprised him was the sounds of singing, the melodies floating throughout the air. Floating out, he saw Schubert, standing near the tree that grew behind their house, birds perched on his finger as he sang his heart out.

It was beautiful- this man just kept on surprising him, each day something that would make Beethoven fall a bit more. He seemed to be not human, but of something else entirely, for no human could be this perfect to him. Was he falling in love? Was it even okay to fall in love with someone who seemed to be a god?

“What a beautiful voice,” He said to himself.

“Huh?” Schubert turned around to face Beethoven, surprised.

“Well, uh, I like your voice, nothing to see here.” Beethoven began to blush, embarrassed. He saw Schubert seem to do that thing where he lit up inside, and the entire world seemed to disappear, and it was just the two of them. Forgetting the birds, Schu walked over to him and stood next to him, looking at the scene.

“Say, Beethes, if I one day I grew old and lost my voice, would you still love me?” He asked the taller man.

“Of course I would love you,” Beethoven answered and touched Schubert’s cheek, and watched as Schubert gingerly lifted his left hand to meet that cheek. “Why, you seem to have fallen from the heavens themselves.”

This made Schubert laugh, a free, light laugh that seemed to be made out of light.

“Well, it did hurt when I fell from heaven, but of course I didn’t come from heaven,” He said. “Sure didn’t hurt when I fell for you though.” The two of them started to snicker.

* * *

 

Spring turned into summer, and the two of them were now used to living with each other, almost like a married couple. It was a shame they were too poor to marry. They had settled into a routine of sorts- get up with the sun, enjoy time they had together, cook for most of the day, then go back to sleep, all with each other. It was like they were joined at the hip (literally)- you couldn’t see one without the other.

But even as friendly as they were, they did have a rivalry in the restaurant- each one trying to impress their customers even more than the last. Some new seasoning here, a new sauce mixture there- the reason Beethoven’s restaurant had shot to popularity in the town was because you never knew what you were going to get if you even ordered the simplest dish.

Schubert noticed that Beethoven was gradually getting better, and as he seemed to dance around the kitchen, frying the gyoza and serving it up to customers. Seemingly just a normal day, but he was lost in his own world- he was sure to do the best he could. He could notice every element of the different flavors he added, but one thing he didn’t notice was how out of it Beethoven looked, how he seemed to focus on keeping himself sane.

Just as Schubert whirled around to a table, saying “Served” as he did so, there was a choking sound from inside the kitchen. Racing back, he saw Beethoven kneeling down on the floor, a hand on his mouth, blood dripping in between the cracks.

“Beethoven, are you okay?” Schubert asked. No response. “Please, we have to help you!” Lifting Beethoven into his arms with some difficulty, he laid the unresponsive man onto the bed. Going back to the restaurant, he began to tell the disappointed customers that they were closed and would be closed for the next few days.

It wasn’t closed because Beethoven was sick, as Schubert was good enough to manage it alone (or so he thought)- but it was because Franz had another plan in mind. Closing the doors to the kitchen, he went back to Beethoven.

“Please don’t give up now, Beethes. I know you can fight it. I’ll get you the medicine, I swear,” Schu said even when he knew he wouldn’t get a response.

For the next two days, Schubert would work at the loom non-stop, only pausing to sleep, if only for a few hours, deft hands weaving across the skin, making silky smooth white fabric of the highest quality. Autumn approached, and still, he kept on making the beautiful fabric, a repetitive motion that would’ve been easy, if he could see through the tears welling in his eyes.

“Maybe I really am sent down from the gods,” Schubert said bitterly to himself as he kept on sewing, the cuts on his hands growing. After bandaging his hands, he opened the window in the room. It was almost autumn, and the beautiful copper, fiery leaves of the tree started to float down to the ground in the wind.

He went back to weaving.

Beethoven’s life would not fall like the leaves that shriveled up and died. No. He wouldn’t let him die. His life was worth so much more, not just one of the lives in an endless sea of humanity. For this was someone who had saved Schubert from the cold, welcomed him into his life, even when he felt as though he should not be there.

Schubert loved him, and he vowed to keep him alive.

* * *

 

It was almost fall, and the bell crickets chirped outside, awakening Schubert from his stupor as he bandaged his fingers, covering up the cuts. His hands were still beautiful, delicate, but scarred. No longer so perfect, so godlike. Getting up from the loom, he went to check on Beethoven, who was awake.

Beethoven gestured for Schubert to sit down next to him, and he obliged as the sick man looked at his hands.

“These are beautiful hands, Schu,” he said as he looked down at Franz’s scraped hands.  “Beautiful fingers. Must be working magic over there. Sometimes I think about you, how maybe you were a god in disguise coming to save me from my loneliness.”

“But if one day I grow old, and I no longer have these fingers, would you love me?” Schubert nestled closer to Beethoven.

“Gods don’t grow old, Schu. And even if you were not a god, and you did eventually get old, I would still love you. I swear on my life.” Beethoven coughed, and his hand instinctively moved towards Schubert’s fingers- once without a scratch, now covered with so many of them.

“I have to go back to weave,” Schu said, standing up, and without meeting Beethoven’s blue-green eyes, went back to the loom. 

 

Days and nights passed, Schubert growing more weary as he weaved, the maple leaves falling- just a little more and Beethoven would be well- what if the medicine had ran out and Beethoven would never be well? No, that couldn’t happen… He began to weave at a more hurried pace- just a little bit more, he thought to himself every time, until his fingers stopped the repetitive motion.

Meanwhile, Beethoven seemed to grow more frail, only sitting up to watch the autumn sunsets, feeling the cool breeze, looking at the fruits that had sprouted on the tree. It was becoming harder and harder to face every day- when would he depart?

One afternoon, as the sun set, Schubert was still weaving at the loom, when he broke a string, his hand practically crying out in pain. He began to bury his face in his once beautiful hands, weeping for what he had lost, facing reality. The motions were becoming harder, and it was becoming harder for him to hang onto the hope that Beethoven would one day be restored to full health.

But he couldn’t give up now. It was all for Beethoven, the person who had said he was a god. He had promised to help him, this man who had once helped Schubert on that cold winter night.

Until the very last feather dropped, he would give it all of his effort.

 

One fall afternoon, Beethoven woke again, and didn’t see Schubert anywhere. In a daze, he got up. What had happened to their business? What would happen to the two of them? Was Schubert doing something totally crazy? He walked over to the spare room, surprised to see Schubert working the loom, weaving white fabric, as white as snow- which brought him to remember the crane he had once rescued, back when he was healthy.

Health. What had once seemed so close to him a year ago was so far from him now. Would he even have it in the days to come?

“Oh, you’re just on time, Beethes,” Schubert said with a smile. “I have a question to ask you, if you don’t mind. Please sit down, get comfortable.” He pushed up his glasses.

“So what do you want to ask me?” Beethoven said in confusion.

“If one day, I’m not human… would you still love me?” The young man choked out as he was enveloped in a white light. A feather appeared, and with a thin, bandaged hand, he plucked it and began to weave for the last time, his movements slow and methodic.

Then, Beethoven realized something- this person really wasn’t human. He was truly a god, sent from the heavens.

“I’m a crane, Ludwig,” Schu said while biting back tears. “You saved me that one day, and I figured that I might repay the favor.” He started to cry, and Beethoven walked over to him, holding Schu, feeling salty tears drip onto the cloth of his robe. “Now, now you’ll never be able to love me. You said I was a god, but I’m really so much less.”

“Of course I’ll love you, Franz,” Beethoven replied, a hint of kindness in his voice. He was grateful that the gods had sent Schubert here- a beautiful crane, who had given up his wings in a gesture of love. “I thought that I would always remember it- how free you looked, flying in the sky…”

Schubert laughed. It was still the same laugh, the one made out of purity and light and joy, but it seemed to be a painful laugh- smiling through the pain.

“And now I’ll never be able to fly again,” he said, taking in the last moments of Beethoven’s warmth. He moved a hand on top of Schu’s scarred ones, thinking about the things they had been through together.

The moment he had stepped through that door, he had changed Beethoven’s life forever. Helping out in the gyoza kitchen, singing to the birds in springtime, the little, quiet moments where it was just the two of them… and the exquisite fabric that was sown, tinged with sorrow. He didn’t need to say he was in love with Schubert, for Beethoven, this normally lone man who didn’t bother to talk with most people, already was.

“Franz, from the moment you stepped into my house, you changed my life forever. And in our very last hour, I swear that you’ll keep on changing it.” Beethoven blinked as tears started to well in his eyes. “I love you, no matter what.”

And with that, the two of them let out their last breaths.

 


End file.
